An opportunity for you to tell us your story of "Welcome", however that looked, as a veteran, a family member or close friend. Click here to tell your story.

Get Connected

Poems

To purchase the book, Voices of Vets, by the Veterans of the Welcome Home Project, please contact The Mosaic Multicultural Foundation (here). You can also read many of the poems on the Welcome Home Project site (here).

Decades later, there are days when it is forgotten. Until some flickering image or incoherent sound commands an unwanted replay of the old news; recreating those moments when images of family flashed past - preceding playback of combat and destroying delusions of peace.

Then, violent shadows of lonely death haunt me. The winged missiles that seek out ships, bring the rage of fire, flood and smoke - backdrop for the cries of wounded men, and the silence of sudden death.

The young dead soldiers do not speak.Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:who has not heard them?They have a silence that speaks for them at nightand when the clock counts.They say: We were young. We have died.Remember us.They say: We have done what we couldbut until it is finished it is not done.They say: We have given our lives but until it is finishedno one can know what our lives gave.They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,they will mean what you make them.They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were forpeace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,it is you who must say this.We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

by Archibald MacLeish,1892-1982, American Poet

THE WARRIOR AT HOME by Melissa Eaton2/28/2009

My man has been to battleMy man has been to war.And it's really hard to realizeHe's not the same man I knew before

I know I'm not the reasonHe sits and cries in the dark aloneWith memories of terrorsEven though now he's safe at home

But he's my heroMy wounded warrior LoveHe fought hard to win our freedomsBut somehow he lost his soul.........How do I try to help him?Now his job is finally doneFor he still suffers and is hauntedBy this war that he's brought home,

I must remind myself each momentAs the dishes hit the wallIt's not me that caused his angerI'm not the real target, after all

I try to comfort him at nighttimeHe cries out, and is soaked with sweatDreams of death are all around himHis war still rages in his head

He medicates himself with danger,Drugs and porno and the wineI'm so afraid he'll overdose itAnd be forever gone from time

But they're our heroesOur wounded warrior LovesThey fought hard to win our freedomsBut somehow they lost their souls....How do we try to help them?Now their jobs are finally donFor still they suffer and are hauntedBy this war that they've brought home

There’s no end in sightTo this endless warThat they've brought home.

On the Death of a Young Suicide Bomber

by Laura Carpenter, US Army

He tried to kill my best friend.

He was enemy he was dead. I know how I was supposed to feel,

but I still can’t muster any rye laughter,

for this man whose corpse and car bomb are now cool, still, silent. The nightmares lie to me. If Freud was correct and our dreams could tell our wishes to us

then I must wish that his body was just dismantled. Spread about in wayward bits,

someone might come along to Frankenstein together,I can see it all when I sleep, limbs torn from torso like puzzle pieces,

uncoiled entrails tumbling out the belly,

viscera still moist and gleaming in the afghan sun. It isn’t true. Nothing was left whole. His clothing, white cotton streaked with blood and shit,

clung to the mangled steel in strips. Like bandages dressing a giant metal wound. Sand colored dogs marred with gore,

tore flesh from carcass, and all around, the pulp of him. Like kitchen waste left out too long stinking in the street. I know they promised him glory, they promise us all glory, They must have told him he was off to save the world from evil,

ignited some righteous fire inside the membranes that split that day,

to release all around the pulp of him. The sticky softness, the juice. I think of my own body that seemed so solid a moment before,

a frame for armor, ammo, a rifle, a vessel filled with strength. But I saw all around, the pulp of him. Human batter baking in the heat,

and I think of the body of my own son as he grows in the shadow

of Ft. Bragg, Pope Air force base, Camp Lejune, soon there will be gi Joe's and little green army men, I know. And an X box to spray pixillated carnage in his face,and movies to teach him which people are good guys

and which are killable. The recruiters will come, they’ll promise glory once again,there will be no human batter in the ads, no sticky softness, no kitchen waste. I think of him, asleep in peace,

for he has no nightmares of war to interfere. I want to still the gunfire, the bombs, the soldiers chance that rye, soul stripping laughter,the naked malice they tried to make me feel and say,

Hush now world, a child is sleeping.

A sweet soufflé still rising so desperately fragile. And if you must use words like martyr and infidel, or hero and enemy,

then whisper them. Its all so desperately fragile, so easy to destroy, a clotted mess of protein in the bottom of the pan, a brown red stain, soaking into dust.

The Man in the Uniform,

by Woody Powell, Korea Vet, 3/23/06

I saw a man, in a uniformworn like skin, moldedtrim and significant with colored patches,bits of brass, chevrons, barsan accounting, I thought, of courage and skill, a story of to hell and backsilently spokeninto my cradle of uncertaintybending me like a green sticktoward the siren song ofDuty, Honor, Country;talismanic wordsirrefutableimmutablethe common shieldbehind which I marchedwith othersinto the mystery of war.

I am a manwithout a uniformwithout significancewithout a shieldnakedand all too awareof what I might have been:

A spirit lostdrained away into the pores of the earth;

A spirit shatteredall therebut re-assembled badly;

A spirit drapedin the crimson robe of shameendlessly asking, “How could I have?”

A spirit swollen, diseased,infected by Colt, Browning and Boeing,with the awesome power of death;

A spirit offendedlooking for someone to blame;

Or, as it was,a spirit confused, looking for shelterin a job, a family, a bottle or just a space where I need not think.

WMP – 3/23/2006

Poems from the Welcome Home Project, Memorial Day, 2008

__________________________________________________________Maggots and Gold, by Jack McLean

Create a village as strong as a warTo pick the maggots off my skinAnd burnish the gold that lies withinThis will renew the strength of my sacred core.Can we create a village as strong as a war?

Jack McLean USMC, Vietnam

__________________________________________________________Old Timers - A Term of Endearment, by Melissa Steinman

There is no certain path on the road to healing. It is a directionthat you take out of a valley surrounded by tall mountains.The underbrush of the forest is thick as a jungle.

From across the valley, a brother runs towards me,and nearly out of breath he says, “There was no pathto healing when we came back.

But we are used to cutting through jungles,we started hacking through the bush 40 years ago,in a direction that might lead to it.

We aren’t finished yet, we’re most of the way up the hill, but we saw you coming, so we ran all the way backto get you.

Don’t get me wrong. The path is narrow and uphill in all directions, but we have cleared most of the brush before you,and as long as it takes,

Dear god in heaven, or wherever,Perhaps because my humvee rolls through the valleys of theshadow of death -- Tagrab, Jalalabad, Kabul,

Or perhaps because this land looks so much like the picture bibleof my childhood, I look for you in its swirling sands.Any of these mounts, it seems, could hold a JesusPreaching blessings on all that I am not -- the meek, the peacemaker.

I went to three chaplains with my cloven soul.The first one gave me medals of your saints, Michael with his sword, (they’re fond of that one.)The second anointed my head with oil,But couldn’t tell me why my cup runneth overWhen all around me your children die for want of drink,Their thirsty bodies too weak to scream,Whispering your name.The third offered holy water to douse me with,While just outside two babies were sprinkledwith shrapnel.

From minarets they call out your greatness,But the explosions drown their prayers, seeming greater still.Mortars steal children.Rockets crumble men.“If any should die before they wake...”(Well, you know the rest, I’m sure.)

The bombs rain down. Fire from above.The mines, like geysers. Fire from below.And in the streets the fires are burning.

We speak of fighting fire with fire,Of firefights, firepower,Enemy fire and friendly.

I plead with you for cleansing fire.The candles burning on a million altars,Smoldering incense, sage, or sweetgrassExhaling over the world.

Couldn’t a monk set himself ablaze or something?(It seems fitting now.)

Or the one I was taught to call the Prince Of PeaceCould send his spirit down in tongues of flame.(A dove would work as well, I suppose, the symbolism lost onno one.)

The Cherokee and Navajo burn sacred tobacco to find you.I, for my part, flick my seventeenth cigarette against a bush,Hoping it may ignite and you might speak.

The brush catches for a moment, crackles, then dissolves intosilence.Like static on a radio:

Agnus Dei, qui tolis Pecata mundi,Miserere nobis. How copy, over?

Agnus Dei, qui tolis pecata mundi,Miserere nobis. How copy, Over?

Agnus Dei, qui tolis pecata mundi,Donna nobis pacem.

The silence on your end thunders in my skull,So deafeningly loud and clear.

Laura Carpenter US Army, Afghanistan

_________________________________________________________

Triggers - War UnWon, by Bob Eaton

Futile occupation Head full of liesHearts full of sorrow Doesn’t know whyMind full of memories Living with dangerBodies full of shrapnel Fists full of anger

Got to blame someone for whats being done.

Questions raised, as politicians scatheEveryone is right while no one is wrongParents ask where their kids have gone.Peace lies in wait only at heaven’s gateLovers are torn and babies go unborn

Full of confusion Environment unkindRules of Engagement Changing all the timeAbuse of detainees Desecrated bodiesDo what you need to survive No one cares for your lifeBack home time to think Guilt brings you to the brink

Its not easy, hero unsungWhat’s it worth when war in your head is unwon

Robert EatonUS Army, Vietnam

________________________________________________________________

BALANCING THE BOOKS, by Cynthia Lefever

A Soldier Boy A new husbandA Soldier Boy A new dadMy Soldier Boy A new recruitMy Soldier Boy 21 with zero dependentsMy Soldier Boy A volunteer: “I’ll go on ahead first to meet”

I was a spectator among the sandIn the heat and the sunRight near where the Euphrates ranAnd I was there as many sides and points of viewWould clash over who could take more away from whoAnd the brown sand would turn redAnd heavy collars would question the menAnd others would drown our moral with bucketsof judgmentAnd time seemed to almost stop as it becameLess of a friend with each passing dayAnd I was there and watched as an almostPerpetual loss of life unknown itselfThrough our months in the sandThen I returned home to our countryAnd as I would look at people in the streetAs we passed by each otherNone would see the side of me thatLeft 22 brothers behind on the otherSide of the world

So those of you in this country whom I’llMeet, with a handshake, or a kind passing glanceMy quiet demeanor may be a suggestionOr side effect of the loss that I haveexperienced.

All I could imagine was your return but when the time came it would take a turn I was not prepared for what would come I thought it would be a time for fun Instantly I could see that something was missing for the love of my life I found myself wishing I can see the emptiness in your eye, at times it makes me start to cry I want to help you but I don't know how I wish I could fix it all right now I hold it in, it's not about me for I do not know how you must be I don't understand how a soldier can be treated this way There is so much that I have to say with each day I feel we are healing As the layers have begun peeling There are so many times I feel alone But I thank God each day that you are home.

Christy Jacobs, wife of Jake Jacobs, US Air Force, Iraq

________________________________________

FUCK, by Mike Schenk

I’m just getting teared up.Since my flashback my world has been numb.Turned upside down.I had to put my doggie down who has been by my side for thirteen years.I haven’t been able to cry.It just doesn’t come.

We heard a story that mentionedmaggots being cleaned off a noble man.The whole village came to help that noble man.The maggots cleaning the dead tissue leaving way for new growth of new flesh andthe gold to take hold and spreading the healing process.Always remember,PTSD will always be thereBut we can learn to understand it and therefore live with it.

Mike Schenk US Army, Vietnam

____________________________________________________

Oma Died, by Niels Daaman

1. Niels, Oma died...Mom, I am getting deployed

3. Please put your M-16 in the overhead compartments with the muzzle facing to the rear of the plane.

Above and beyond all things considered, learn to forgive yourself. I don't care what you did or didn't do, try to forgive what you've considered the unforgivable. For there will simply come a day when you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing else left to do.

Bring loving people into your life, because you cannot forgive yourself alone. If this was possible, you would have done so a long time ago. Expose emotional silence, so your wounds can finally be healed. It takes time to heal, so give yourself that precious gift. Let the self-inflicted guilt die, instead of you.

Mike Hastie,

Medic, US Army, Vietnam __________________________________________

Road March, Cynthia Lafever

Don't get me wrong - I know it was a dream

DO NOT get me wrong - I know it was a dream

NOT!

My dream went like this:

In the middle of the night, I sat up in the dark And opened my eyes to see what was there

Dont get me wrong - this was an ordinary, middle-of-the-night dream

DO NOT get me wrong - this was an ordinary, middle-of-the-night dream

NOT!

This what I saw:

A soldier in camo on a dirt road Without moving his feet, he marched to the foot of my bed

I saw he was young and strong and so very handsome I saw his camo was clean with the collar starched I looked down and saw his desert boots were new without a single stain I looked up again and now saw only half of a face and one empty eye socket

Without speaking any words, I asked him what he wanted Without moving his lips, he telegraphed back:

Be MY Mom

Without moving his arms, he showed me his clean hands with no blood or dirt under his nails Without moving his arms, he reached for me as he telegraphed another plea:

Bring ME Home

I closed my eyes or maybe I just blinked When a twin appeared by his side Young and strong and handsome Clean and starched with an identical half face and empty eye socket

Together without moving, with no signs of blood or gore, with no tears The twins reached for me as they telegraphed:

Be OUR Mom, Bring US Home

I blinked again and then there were four marching in a row I blinked again and then there were eight marching with four in a row Then 16 with 4 to a row, Then 32 with 4 to a row The road filled with half faces and empty eye sockets

Silently and respectfully, without moving, they marched on that dirt road at the foot of my bed Until I heard their souls and their Purple Hearts start to roar They telegraphed in unison:

Rory Dunn was blown up by a roadside bomb on his 22nd birthday 5-26-2004 and suffered traumatic brain injury, the loss of his right eye and blinded in his left eye He lost his hearing and part of his skull and still carries shrapnell in his head and suffers from PTSD. Two of hisbest friends were killed along side of him. His struggle to survive was further complicated by the military machine upon his return to Walter Reed. The militarys priority was to be rid of this wounded hero. Rory and his Mom and dad advocate for the wounded warriors to be treated with respect and dignity until they have recovered enough to return to society. I had the oportunity to meet this young man at a retreat to welcome home veterans of wars and was profoundly effected by he and his families courage. This song is for you Rory. ****** chorus The Generals come in says we'll shed a tear Just as soon as you sign this paper right here They'll be tears of joy that we don't have to share The cost of the pain you will forever bear

verse Fallujah Iraq and another sunny day Time to go out for the grim game we play We're loaded for bear and ready to kill But today the killing will be on our bill Flash of fire and the last sound I hear Are the sounds of my friends as they leave this earth And so I die but before I awake again The smell of death is burned into my brain Silent sounds from those who provide care And though I can't hear the screaming is still there

chorus Then the Generals come in says we'll shed a tear Just as soon as you sign this paper right here They'll be tears of joy that we don't have to share The cost of the pain you will forever bear

verse Best friends blown apart in Fallujah Iraq Why am I the only one to come back Wives left alone with a folded flag A child with a medal and no memory of dad They're spirit lives on within me Forever grateful I will always be I joke and I laugh to numb the pain Gets me through the day as it happens over and over again My body is mangled and full of the war Sometimes I feel I can't give anymore, then the

chorus Generals come in says we'll shed a tear Just as soon as you sign this paper right here They'll be tears of joy that we don't have to share The cost of the pain you will forever bear

verse Makes more courageous to stand up and fight For the wounded warriors hell and their plight Left to waste away in a hospital bed Promises of glory the generals said As the generals take advantage of our war inside And offer us promises and belittle our pride Pinning on medals with much fanfare While secretly planning how to get us out of there I will fight for my country on my own shores until our young soldiers have to fight no more

chorus And when Generals come in saying we'll shed a tear Just as soon as you sign this paper right here I'll be shedding tears of joy that the soldiers won't fear Saying no to the Generals standing there.